Day Old Hate
by Warrior0fstarclan
Summary: When a case takes a turn for the worst. The chase is on for Sherlock and John. :D
1. Prologue

**Prologue: **

Is this what it felt like? To truly fade away? It was if he could feel every single individual molecule in his body; work together once more, every cell in the 'enclosure' flowing, every nerve signal breaking apart. To linger for only a mere moment as if to say goodbye. Their inevitable fate to drift away from their groups; the transference of matter to create new organic material for life elsewhere.

It was if all of his thoughts and feelings were intertwined, as if letters were brushing against his head as he lost more and more of his composure. His limbs twitched transitioning to eventually vibrating violently as he gasped for air. Memories were encasing him; impossible to catch them back even if he tried. He watched them leave with piercing accuracy as his chest heaved for more and more breath.

This was it, the final shutdown of everything he once was, or ever could be.

Yet despite this entire struggle, all this reflection and _emotions_ that he was being forced into by his own impeccable, persistent body that now turned on him and forced him to accept his fate, he loved it.

It was spectacular, literately, no pun intended, once in a lifetime experience. He knew not why people feared this, why people feared the end – the journey he was on, the final destination, everything about it was truly indescribable; this would be the last chance that he could ever let his oxymoron emotions collide together, to succumb to them. And now he proudly did so.

The memories that came were mixed, his mothers soft eyes laid him as he picked up his satchel for his first day of school, the day he was pummeled to the ground by bigger kids of his age. This was of course for calling one of them stupid, which the boy despite his bruises on the way home, proudly continued to call the kid a moron whenever he asked another obvious question in class.

Even his long conversations with his father on history had floated past him on the memory wheel. He remembered going over a case of murder that he read in the paper with the man and how his father had questioned him and swapped theories willingly. A couple of weeks later his original idea was proven correct and ever since the boasting he had done at school and the beating he had took, he made it a full time occupation to drop out and stalk the police everywhere, until eventually they made use of his deduction and quick thinking. So they let him work along side them.

And then came the memory of his relationship with the government – or in other words his brother. Now came a flash back of his first proper fight with his pompous sibling. Mycroft getting irked as the boy had found that Sherlock had stolen all of his microscopes and beakers to put them to good use. It also didn't help that Sherlock had extracted blood from his brothers pet rabbit with one of his mothers sewing needles and had stained the hallway carpet with his clumsy use of the extracts.

As his past went on by, the less and less vivid they became, as if it was a blur, the irrelevant memories being pushed aside as boring or useless, he waited, still letting the toxins in his body enthrall him. It felt like an eternity, but even the nagging sensation in the back of his mind told him that in the world he wasn't ever going to witness again was going to barely past a few seconds.

Then it came, _he_ came, the man that had once left him, the man that had left his life, unwillingly.  
His first true friend; the conductor of light. Their first meeting, his deductions of the man, how the man had gawped at him in amazement, it had felt like such a long time ago. Everything about the man had felt like such a long time ago.

With his last energy he strained to retain these last memories, just wishing for his brain to let him engulf himself in these last moments.  
It was futile anyhow as he was basically about to die. He could sense the man all around him, the images of their fights and conversations have been the most vivid to him so far, the cases they had solved together, the scolding that Sherlock had got on a regular basis. He really was the only man that could ever keep Sherlock grounded, the only human who ever could actually.

Now it was playing as if he had just inserted a DVD into a recorder that had a few minor scratches. Choppy but all the same skipping some scenes that were vital to the story telling.

The sensation of his body now became more and more irrelevant as focused solely on his friend. He wished that he could apologize to him. He was reckless and should of protected him. He had nothing left now, he was fading and the last images were floating away from him. The rare emotions that came with his friend were dampening. It was ready to be wiped from existence. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the last of his air be closed out from his body, now the curtain will fall.

Letting go of what effort he had left, he let the seeping darkness take over him…


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: **

"Have you found anything yet?"  
"No, hold on a second-"  
"John!"  
"Hold on! I'm looking!"

The flat of 221B Baker Street was illuminated softly by the burning fireplace that John sat next to, there was a stack of newspapers by his feet, divided into two large piles. One pile he mentally noted was the pile of 'oh my god, why did I have to read this crap?' whilst the other was 'if I'm not allowed to finish soon, Sherlock is going to have a certain newspaper shoved up where the sun don't shine.'

The blonde haired man continued to yawn repetitively as he scanned each paper thoroughly, placing the used ones on one end and grabbing another from the new pile, he was scanning for the text that his irritating flatmate had assigned him to find and was dreading every moment of agreeing to it.

"It has to be there John," the tall slender Sherlock dropped his cool voice to an octave that John found tolerable, the doctor noted how the detective was pacing back and forth across the room, how his robe swished frantically when he swerved. The mans energy levels never appeared to fluctuate despite the fact that he and John had been up for three straight days, looking in towns for newspapers that John couldn't pronounce the name of let alone navigate.

His flatmate's hands were pressed together now, right under the brim of his nose; a strong look of contemplation dusked his eyes. "It could not fail to be in one of them."

"Lets hope not." John rubbed his eyes with one hand and blinked roughly, ignoring the watering sensation that they produce from lack of rest as he continued to scan page after page. Sherlock was forcing him to scan the valentines, funeral and divorce section, down to the most insignificant detail. It was evident that his flatmate, if he volunteered to do so would have been quicker then John and finished the piles possibly hours ago.

The doctor didn't need to worry though; Sherlock put his best man to it – no matter how convenient it might have been for him to have done it himself.

"Come on!" his flatmate huffed at him and started to circle the area where the doctor sat, John felt annoyance seep within him but tried to push it away and focus on the task in front of him, he felt the tall mans gaze slip onto the paper that John was about to toss away and lifted it up for the detectives reach.

"Found something?" he looked at the dreadful still to be examined newspaper pile next to him and could feel the bile that rose in his throat. There was at least another four hours work in there, and that's for a fully awake person.

"Found it." Of course he did.

All these hours wasted on this crap, now John even lost his minor boasting rights.

Sherlock waved the now underlined text in front of John's face,"56 Lacuna Groove?" the doctor rolled his eyes and rested his head back onto the top of the chair.  
"It was Pat's house all along."

"So obvious."

If it was so obvious, I shouldn't have been made to read all those sections; John bit his lip in frustration as he thought of the many ways to beat Sherlock with the fine print - but said nothing as he watched the consulting detective pull out his phone to report the news to Lestrade.

Well at least they had finally caught the drugs merchant, now Sherlock could stop pestering him and he could finally return back to his bed for the hibernation that awaited him. Standing up and feeling his body sway from exhaustion, he stretched, enjoying the prospect of falling asleep and never, ever, ever, waking up again.

Stumbling half way across the room and gripping for the railing on the stairs for dear life his grand delusion of sneaking away (if you could even call it that) was cancelled as he heard the sharp crack of his name rise from the detective.  
"Aren't you coming with me to drop off the files John?"

Deciding that the best decision was to ignore the detective, John picked up his past and climbed up as fast as he could on the flight of stairs before him. "John!" he heard the detective call and pelt after him, eradicating an urge in the doctor to run back down and just push him out the flat and send him off to Scotland Yard with a packed lunch. "Why are you ignoring me John?"

For god's sake, almost bristling now, the doctor reached the top of the stairs and could distinctly hear the curly haired mans scuffling just inches away, he pressed his palm against the cool door handle, he swung the wood open.

Now he knew what was going on, despite his room being distinctly dark, he could make out the clutter of mess all around. Books from his shelve were strewn onto the floor, his blankets torn up, feathers and fluff from them coated the floor, making it almost impossible to tell which was actually the carpet and which was his bedding.

After a brief few seconds of soaking in his surroundings, he finally spotted the cause of all this havoc. Its thin black lining making it almost impossible to recognize to the naked eye, John was grateful that he knew his bedroom better then anyone else and the reflexes in which he was trained to have allowed him to slam the door on the cause before it could even blink their way.

"You have got to be kidding me!" The detective who was behind him merely two seconds was already half way down the stairs and looking up at him with his innocent blue gaze with his hands clasped behind his back. John could feel both of his palms tighten at the thought of punching Sherlock right now – oh how good it would feel to press his hard knuckle against that delicate face of his and destroying all its perfections.

"There is a tiger-"  
"Yes John."  
"In my-"  
"room, John. Yes I am well aware."

How was he meant to retort that? Crossing his arms he glared straight into his flatmates eyes, he supposed he should be immune to this kind of thing now, since he was living with Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. But with the amount of sleep he's had, logic and reasoning wont even help army from getting thrown into that room with the savage animal.

"Give me one good reason Sherlock," he breathed in slowly, he could almost feel his muscles fidgeting as if longing to relieve the tension that was now bound to them; "one good bloody reason, that I shouldn't skin you alive right now!"

"Irrational Watson," Sherlock pursed his lips but his eyes remained as stone "interesting."

God he is so cocky. "I'll show you interesting in a minute?"  
"I doubt it."

"Would you like me to try?" John started advancing down the stairs towards him, slowly as if to add some drama into the atmosphere. To anyone else it would seem quite cliché.

"Yes actually, but you won't. My rooms open for use anyhow." Just as the ex army man reached him, Sherlock already jumped down the entire flight in one graceful leap, and from what John could tell, was hastily reaching for a coat rack.

"Details, John, details. That's what the yard needs."

Still as irritated as ever the doctor watches the man as he descended down the stairs. Once he reached the bottom, the door was flung open with the fully dressed detective standing in the doorframe.

"So are you coming or what?"

"Guess I have no choice do I?" he roughly pushed past the man, his previous tiredness being brushed aside. "Since you let some safari, animal thing have a hotel room for the night."

"It's a Bengal tiger." The detective puffed as they once again headed for the exit of 221B. "They don't inhabit the safari."

"I gather they don't inhabit London homes very often either."

They reached the door and quickly enough they were outside, John appreciated the cool air that bashed against him as he took step into the dark street, it was at the time where the street lamps were off but you had enough light from the upcoming dawn to see with clarity.

"You know what Sherlock?"  
"What?"

"You can have the upstairs bedroom. You aren't getting the downstairs one back. Have fun sleeping with the feline." And with that they dispatched up the street.


	3. Chapter 2

**I am extremely sorry this is late, but lately I've been busy reading the song of ice and fire series, revising for exams and finishing off a novel length story of mine. This should be more frequently updated now as I have time to write again, thanks for the support and patience. Much appreciated! :D **

Before he knew it John found himself sprawled across two chairs in Detective Lestrade's office, overlooking the dim street before him. He could hear the incoherent mutterings of the gray haired detective as the man spoke on the phone across from him. The ex army doctor could feel his head throb painfully, unable to recall the memory of previous events and when he arrived here.

The first thing he noticed as he blinked himself awake was the fact that Sherlock's coat was wrapped tightly around him, despite his awkward position on the make chair bed, he managed to sit up and adjust his eyes to the soft light in his surroundings, he wondered where Sherlock was, why he had his coat draped over him. Also why he was asleep in the detective inspectors office in the first place.

Pulling out his mobile and cringing at the harsh light that pierced his eyes like thorns, he noticed he had four missed calls from his sister Harry printed across the screen. What ever that woman could possibly want from him was a mystery, especially since she never asked for money or help in the first place.

A loud crack erupted making John jump, Lestrade whom had slammed the phone down now, was rubbing his forehead with a snarl plastered on his face.

John hoped that he could be pulled out of this awkward scenario as quickly as possible; he was asleep in Lestrade's office for god sake! It would be less embarrassing if Sherlock just dragged him right into the park, left him starch naked and walked away, although when John thought it over he should be careful what he wished for, with Sherlock's lack of acknowledgement in social and political standards of society, that could one day possibly happen.

The ex army doctor stretched out his muscles and let out a wide yawn, in an attempt to catch the older man's attention. The detective inspector seemingly noticed this and broke from his trance to rest his gaze on John who was balancing his weight on the chairs.

"You're finally awake." Lestrade commented, John noticed the way Lestrade concentrated his facial muscles as he continued to give the man a composed stare.

"Apparently so,"  
"Sherlock carried you in."

John widened his eyes disbelievingly at Lestrade, Sherlock wouldn't have done that, it was probably some officers who found him sprawled over the footpath after the consulting detective complained.

The inspector was most likely trying to avoid confrontation. No way would Sherlock Holmes ever be as compassionate to waste his valuable case time carrying John around. The farthest the dark haired man would go is to tipping a bucket of ice over him in any attempt to wake him up. Yet again the coat…god, John just couldn't imagine the man being able to lift him, even if he wanted to. He hadn't slept like John and to top it all off he refused to eat either. There was just no possible chance.

Standing up and stretching the cracks out of his body, he grabbed Sherlock's coat and wrung it around his shoulder. As if on cue the consulting detective popped up next to him, nearly sending a heart attack through John.

"Don't do that!" he snapped irritably as he handed the taller man his coat. Sherlock just smirked at him and grabbed the index files that Lestrade held up to him.

"Can you hand that to Sally on your way out?" he asked, causing John to roll his eyes.

The taller man predictably grunted distastefully and nudged at John. Sighing he held open his palm expectantly as Sherlock passed on the job to him. The files were hefty, weighing down his arm, he wondered if Donovan actually had to read and process all of this for filing or if there was some sort of crib sheet that instructed where it went, he couldn't imagine the woman wasting her time on a finished case, despite the fact that she was keen to do her job thoroughly and properly. You had to admire the work ethic she had, even if she was a bitch towards Sherlock.

Exiting the room behind Sherlock, John carefully observed the man, he wondered if he had even gone to sleep yet, it was like his thoughts gave him a constant adrenaline rush. John, even with the sleep he had obtained in Lestrade's office still lagged considerably and could barely muster the energy to pick up his pace.

Catching a glimpse of Anderson speaking with a couple of other employees by the water cooler, which was weird because all of them held cups of coffee and the bottle on the cooler hadn't even been flipped over. John tugged at Sherlock's sleeve indicating at the worker before they both paced towards him.

Looking up from his chit chat Anderson put on his best smug grin before facing them both.

"Psychopath and his victim," he scratched at his nose, "You should get on a boat and sail to France or something John, better than with this lunatic."

Does this guy ever just shut his trap? Opening his mouth to retort he was quickly cut off by Sherlock.

"You've been demoted." It was still fascinating to John how Sherlock remained cold stone in the face.

"-what?" it almost sounded like a squeak. "No I haven't."

"Well you clearly have been, you've been serving food all day I imagine; bagels, donuts, bread rolls – oh and a sausage roll. Surprisingly there are no traces of substance on your lips. Obviously giving them to someone else; and I presume demotion because Mike three desks across from us is snacking into a donut right now. Orange icing like the trace of it you smudged on your finger when retrieving it from its packaging. So is this your first break?"

Anderson recoiled a bit; John tried his best not to giggle in amusement. Before Anderson could snap back John shoved the files into his arms to distract him, "It's for Sally." He stated.

"What am I? You servant?"  
"Lestrade's orders."

Satisfied now, before John could even think what to say next they were interrupted by a blood curdling scream.

**Made that random on purpose, it's hard to right cues for dramatic things in my stories because it just conflicts with what I think would happen in real life. xD But yeah, thanks for reading :3 next update soon~**


End file.
